Rush
by Midnight Caller
Summary: Jack and Samantha share a life-affirming experience...


Rush

By Midnight Caller

Summary: Jack and Samantha share a life-affirming experience

Spoilers: None, unless you don't know Jack and Sam had/are having an affair.  Oh, did I say that in my out-loud voice?  

Rating:  Extremely strong R.  Extremely.  Like… R+.  :)

Notes:  Big thanks as always to M, M, A & D.  I need another verb to make a cool word from that acronym, so I'll just leave it at M M A D, which is sort of a word.  G

*****  

The rush was indescribable.  Someone had asked her to explain it once, what it was like to save someone's life, what it was like to be in a situation that brings you so close to death that you come away feeling more alive than you did the day you were born.  The closest she came to describing it was to combine the exhilaration of riding a roller coaster with the sensation produced by running a finger lightly across a sensitive area of flesh.  It was at once subtle yet overt, causing the heart to pound, vessels to constrict, blood to rush to every available extremity.  How odd, she thought, that our bodies' natural instincts that were once used for hunting prey and avoiding death were now used for almost identical purposes hundreds of thousands of years later.  But that's why it was a rush; it was raw, it was pure, and it was addictive.  

They didn't have to draw their guns often, and for that she was grateful, but when the need arose, she couldn't stop the palpitating rhythm in her chest, the wildly pounding beating of a heart reacting to an ageless routine of hunting, killing, and self-preservation above all else.  

Samantha wished she hadn't squeezed the trigger.  Well, she wished that it hadn't been necessary.  But it was one thing to have a gun pointed straight at her face; it was something completely different to have one pointed at him.  

"Jack, have you moved from the last time I saw you… ?"

At the sound of his name, he looked up from his paperwork, glasses sitting low on his nose, shoulders slumped, his head resting in one hand.  She leaned against the doorway, not really sure of why she had stepped in there in the first place.  

"Don't move!" 

The voice was desperate, angry and violent.  Jack's calmness only made it worse, and the hand holding the gun pointed at him became frantic and shaky.  

Beads of sweat formed on Samantha's brow, glancing from Jack to the gun, back to Jack, back to the gun.  Her own aim never faltered, but she hadn't fired for fear of the other gun going off before its owner fell to the floor, dead.  She could hit him in the head maybe, or perhaps even shoot the gun from his hand, but her logical mind was too busy calculating the whatifs and all the worst-case outcomes, and so she simply stood there, gun trained on Jack's potential murderer, wishing more than anything that she somehow knew what to do, how to proceed, what risk to take.  It wasn't supposed to happen this way.   

"You getting out of here soon?"  She asked, gliding over the floor until she reached his desk.  Slowly, she slid onto the smooth wood, bringing her legs around and crossing them, mere inches from where he sat.    

His eyes were relaxed, dark, and alive with a force she had seen before, months ago, but only on occasion since then.  He usually tried to keep it buried, especially at work, because if that dark, attentive gaze manifested as actions, they both knew there would be consequences.  

He lifted his head off his hand and sat up, staring at her, not even trying to hide the look in his eyes.  And she made no attempt to hide the fact that she was staring right back.  

"Look, just put it down, let's talk it out…"

Jack stayed so calm, hands out in front of his body, his eyes never leaving the face of the man who could very well end his life.  

"Don't move, I'll kill you, I swear to God, I'll kill you!"

Samantha blinked rapidly as the gun pointed at Jack shook furiously.  She readjusted her grip on the textured handle of her own weapon, her palms sweaty and damp.        

His hand only had to move a few inches before it reached her leg.  She looked down at him from her perch on the desk, and he looked up at her, as if this was just an everyday activity.  His palm spread wide over her knee, warm and firm, and their eyes never left each other's as his hand slowly made its way up the outside of her thigh.  

"You're not getting out of here, you know.  There are 15 armed policeman outside this door, waiting to take you out if you run."  

The gun waved again, its wielder shaking more intensely now.  The only sounds coming from him were exasperated whimpers.  Frustration and firepower; a lethal combination.  

Jack lowered his voice as the man suddenly stepped closer to him.  "You don't want to shoot me, Luis… it'll only make it worse…"

Sam wondered if Jack saw it, or if she was the first to notice.  It was just a flash in Luis' eyes, perhaps lasting only a millisecond, but it was there long enough to let her know that no matter what was said, Jack was going to die.  

With an animalistic growl, Luis suddenly lunged, the gun extended out in front of his body.  

She didn't even think.  

She saw his finger twitch, and she didn't even think.  

She squeezed once.  

Then twice.   

When his hand reached her hip, he paused briefly before moving back down her leg.  His eyes never left hers, reliving the day's events over and over, the memories replaying again and again like the circular swirls of her irises.  

The rush had been overwhelming, and not only for her.  As Luis fell to the floor, they merely stood there, their bodies recovering from the stress, and all they could do was just stare at one another, unable to communicate any other reaction to what had just transpired.  

Perhaps that's what his hand was attempting to do as it continued past her knee, along her shin, and around the back of her calf.  There were plenty of able-bodied spectators beyond the windows of his office, but her position on the desk hid his actions, adding a different kind of excitement and thrill to the kind they had experienced earlier.  Right now they both needed to feel alive, but not by almost dying.  They needed to touch and feel, to solidify the physicality of being living, breathing human beings.  

They decided to share the taxi.  

Not really caring who saw them get in together, they directed the driver and the cab sped off uptown.  

Traffic was moderate, and the car lurched and stopped, sped and crawled, and all the while their eyes stayed locked.  

Her hand steadied herself on the seat between them and he reached over, sliding his fingers over hers.  It was just a light touch, but it ignited something deep within her, and she quickly told him that with her eyes.  

He rested his arm on the back of the seat, and his hand found a strand of her hair, running it between two of his fingers.  Then he reached toward her again, the tips of his fingers just barely grazing the skin right below her ear.  Her eyes told him what he was doing to her, and just how far she was willing to go.    

He continued to stare at her as they stood in front of her door.  She fished out her keys and finessed the lock, and he stood inches away, his eyes seemingly memorizing every part of her face.  She'd never seen him this… possessed before.  It was as if he was afraid she'd somehow disappear if he took his eyes off of her for more than a second.  

When the door swung open, she walked through, feeling his eyes on her, and she turned around only when she heard him shut the door.  

Part of her wanted to ask him why he kept staring at her, but as she lost herself in those dark, deep pools, she was afraid if she asked, he would actually stop.  

  
The rush that accompanies the act of saving a life overwhelms the senses and charges every nerve ending to its most heightened state of awareness.  Air smells cleaner.  Colors appear brighter.  Food tastes more succulent.  Music sounds sweeter.

But the rush that supplements the presence and touch of that one particular person who makes you feel that one particular way simply defies ordinary description.  

The rush started in her cheeks, as he ran one finger along her smooth skin, slowly drawing an outline around the area before moving to her jaw.  Despite wanting to remain lost in his stare, her eyes fluttered shut, and she quickly succumbed to the tingling produced by his touch.  He moved closer to her until the front of his body touched hers, and she could hear the steady in and out of his breathing, increasing in frequency with each passing second.  

She searched the dark depths of his eyes as his finger continued down the front of her neck, across her collarbone, and then down the length of her arm.  He finally broke eye contact when he took a hold of her hand and slowly brought it to his mouth, where he tenderly kissed the tips of her fingers.  

She watched him, fascinated, as if her skin had never felt his lips, as if her fingers had never been touched by the warmth of his own flesh, as if they had never pressed their bodies together, shared caresses and kisses, or tangled their limbs around each other as their minds wrapped them in a protective cocoon that shut out the judging eyes of the outside world.    

And here, right now, they were back in that secluded, sheltered place, back where the burdens of everyday life were left behind, where the guilt of their actions couldn't rip apart their hearts, where he was free to demonstrate his gratitude and love, and where she was able to accept it without remorse or contrition.  

Ever so slowly, he slid one of her fingers between his lips, gently sucking on the soft skin, swirling his tongue around the tip as he closed his eyes and moaned lightly.  She caught her breath when the vibration from his mouth pulsated through her finger.  It was just one digit out of 20, but it only made the neglected areas of her body long for the same treatment.  And as her mind thought back to what he was capable of, she sighed in anticipation.  

She closed her eyes again, lighting humming to herself when her finger slowly slipped from his mouth, and then she suddenly caught her breath, her brain unable to function properly while having to process the sensation of his tongue on her throat.  Instinctively, her arms wrapped around him, one hand on the back of his neck, the other sprawled across his shoulder.  Closer, closer… she wanted him closer, even as he continued to suckle and nip at her flesh and his arms pulled her roughly against his body, his skin straining to feel hers through the confines of his clothing.  

With her eyes tightly shut, she felt him move along her collarbone before meandering back up the side of her neck, his mouth teasing and biting, his hot breath warming her skin, causing her nerves to prickle with excitement.  He continued in that fashion along her jaw, toward her chin, and by the time he reached her mouth, her hands were on the back of his head, and she practically attacked his lips with her own.  

Despite the urgency of their embrace, the kiss floated somewhere between insistent and languorous, managing to be on the brink of a carnal union while sustaining a sweet kind of intimacy.  It was in times like this that she realized why it felt so natural with him, why feelings far more profound than guilt always accompanied their rendezvous, and why they wanted to be together, despite all the risks and consequences and personal loss that had the potential of devastating both of their lives forever.  

They slowly started to move backward, lips meeting every few seconds, his hand on her back, guiding her until they finally reached the wall next to the sofa.  She broke the kiss, and he followed her glance to the couch.  But when she started to move toward it, he put his hand on the wall, blocking her path, and then pushed his body forward, forcing her against the plaster.  Her eyes flew open and she stared at him, totally surprised, slightly hesitant, and completely aroused.

His eyes were darker than she had ever seen, the dilated pupils pulsing in time with his labored breathing, the black irises melting her resolve and swallowing her very soul until it became a part of him.  

They kissed again, firmer this time, his tongue pushing more roughly against hers as he started to move his hips.  Somewhere in her ears, above the pounding rush of blood, she heard moaning, and then realized it was coming from her.  He rocked against her again, increasing the tempo, and she felt his need growing warm and firm as it rubbed against her leg.  

Almost on its own volition, her leg came up and wrapped itself around his hip, his fullness and heat now pressing directly onto her own increasing warmth.  She whimpered lightly, hopelessly lost to the sensation of his arousal against hers, of his body pressed to hers, of his mouth on her skin, and the simple, comforting warmth of his presence.  In return, he released a long, deep groan before kissing her again, sucking hard on her bottom lip, nipping at it with his teeth before letting it go.           

"Uhhhhhh… Jack…" she breathed, every single nerve on overdrive, his tongue and teeth exploring the softness of her earlobe.  How he could be so rough, yet so gentle, she didn't know, but the strange mix of the two affected her more deeply than she could have ever predicted.  She wanted him in so many ways: in the most erotic, hedonistic sense; on another, more biologically female level; and finally, in that quixotic, idealist fashion, where the romantic, hopeful part of her wanted to love him, and be loved by him, fully and without question, exclusive of the real life obligations and promises they had made before knowing the other existed.  

His teeth were on her shoulder now, one hand pulling away the fabric of her shirt to give him access to her skin.  His hair tickled her cheek as he continued to swirl his tongue and bite the softness of her flesh, and she was suddenly grasping at his clothes, clawing at his jacket, pushing and shoving until it fell from his shoulders.  Her hands continued their frenzied attack on his shirt, untucking it from his pants, not even bothering with the buttons as she ripped it open to expose his chest.  

A short, loud hiss escaped his mouth when her hands finally touched his skin.  She reached under his shirt and gripped his back and shoulders, pulling him against her again.  Their hands were everywhere, fingers gripping and clutching at whatever was in reach, nails digging into flesh, doing whatever they could to get closer.  

With one hand, he reached between them, down to her waist, gripped the material of her blouse, and pulled it up over her head in one swift movement.  Like polar ends of two magnets, their bodies slammed together again, and without a barrier of clothing between their chests, the resulting energy and heat was overpowering.  Their lips mimicked the bonding of their bodies, and their hips quickly followed suit, grinding against each other with newfound desperation and need.  

He pulled away far enough to fumble with the button on her skirt, blinding struggling with the material while continuing to assault her mouth and neck with his lips.  When he had finally disarmed the clasp, he took a moment to watch his hands unzip the garment before it slid down her legs to the floor.  

He took in the sight of her body, his mouth nearly falling open by the time his eyes reached hers.  The corners of her mouth turned up as she regarded his arousal with amusement and a slight air of mischief.  He seemed to sense the latter, but before he could respond, she grabbed him by the belt, pulled hard, and kissed him again, assailing his mouth with her teeth and tongue, sucking and biting, speaking without words, the vibrations of her moans and the pliancy of her soft lips whispering promises and reaffirming desire and need.  In the spaces between their kisses she murmured his name and those few words that told him what she wanted and what she would give in return.  And he answered with his eyes, and his lips, and the warmth of his hands as they ran through her hair and tenderly caressed her skin, even amidst the frenzied clash of their hips and the desperate nature of their embrace.  

Eventually, she loosened her grip on his pants, but only to readjust her hold on his belt, working the buckle as quickly as possible, considering the rest of her was still preoccupied with processing the sensations of him … everywhere, it seemed.  Finally, the buckle conceded, and she deftly undid the button of his pants, the zipper falling down with a slight nudge of her finger.  

Maybe he didn't notice how much she had accomplished in undressing him, or perhaps he was too busy with her hair and her skin and the way she smelled… because when he felt her hand on him, it took all the control he could muster to not fall to the ground, weak-kneed and helpless from the simple feel of her touch.  

Maybe it had been too long since he had been with her; it didn't seem like that far back in the past, but he couldn't otherwise explain his almost complete paralysis as she gently stroked him through his boxers, the heat of her hand practically scalding his skin where she touched him through the material.  

"Ah… oh… God… Sam…" he breathed, resting his forehead against hers as he put an arm out to brace himself against the wall.  With his other hand he blindly searched for her, finally settling warmly over the wrist above the hand that was amiably robbing his brain of it's normal flow of blood and clarity.        

She let go of him for a moment, and he looked worried and confused until she slipped her hand beneath his shorts and took a hold of him once more.  With her other hand she pushed his pants to the floor, and his boxers soon followed suit.  

He squeezed his eyes shut, and then opened them again, lowering his head to gaze directly into her eyes.  His fingers brushed over her hand, the hand touching him, and he suddenly leaned forward for a brief yet impassioned kiss.  He wanted to tell her everything at that moment – all the ways in which he was drawn to her, all the reasons he shouldn't be with her, and all the reasons he couldn't stay away.  

Instead, he took his other hand from the wall, and brought it to her chest, right below her collarbone.  He watched her breathing as his hand slid lower, lower, lower, until he reached the top of her panties.  Then, he paused.  His hand lingered in place for a moment, lightly running over the soft skin of her stomach, relishing the way her muscles quivered under his fingers.  He drew her eyes back to his again, and watched with rapt attention as shock and arousal flooded over her features when his hand slipped underneath the material.  She gasped when he finally touched her, her eyes losing the struggle to stay open.  

"Jack…" she whispered, barely audible.  He moved closer to her, all of their hands now suddenly pressed between their bodies in an erotic tangle at the juncture of their respective arousals.  Their eyes fluttered open and they found each other again, long enough to share another kiss.  He ran his tongue along her lower lip, and she merely moaned in appreciation, unable to respond in any other way besides continuing to touch him.  

They continued to writhe against each other, the pace being the slow and steady backdrop to the unevenness of their breathing and gasping.  After a few more moments, he let go of her wrist, withdrew his hand from her body, and pulled back, slipping out of her hold.  

She opened her eyes and found him staring at her again, only the obsessed gaze had been replaced by a kind of lustful hunger, and he simply stood there for a moment, making love to her with his eyes.  

Before she could even process her next thought, he gripped her panties, quickly pulling off the last remaining barrier of clothing between them.  She looked up at him again, anxiously awaiting his next move, but she wasn't prepared when he grabbed her by the hips and pushed her hard against the wall.  

He moved his face close to hers, not kissing her, but making similar movements with his head and mouth, his hot breath colliding with hers in the small remaining space between their bodies.  Her eyes stayed locked on his as she felt his hands slide down slightly farther, cupping the back of her thighs with his palms.  

With a grunt and slight flinch across his features, he lifted her and she quickly wrapped her legs around his waist, holding her in place.  Her breathing was so erratic she thought she might pass out from the sensation of his hands, and from the feel of him, so ready for her, so close to her, pulsing hot against the inside of her upper thigh.  

His next question was answered with one simple look into the depths of her eyes, and he lifted her again, just enough, and then lowered her just as gently, carefully watching her face for any sign of discomfort or hesitation.  Finding nothing but an echo of what his eyes must have been saying to her, he slowly pushed his hips forward, against hers, and then pulled back slightly before repeating the movement.  He felt her nails on his back, and on his scalp, and he shut his eyes to gain control, despite wanting to watch as he made love to her.  

Their chests bumped together each time he moved his hips, her back slamming against the plaster.  But the slight pain was immediately ebbed by the pleasure radiating out from where they were now joined, and from everywhere else he was touching her.  His legs ached and his back strained from the exertion, but neither sensation registered strongly enough to matter, and he merely held on even tighter, loving everything about her, the feel of her against him, around him, touching him.

Somehow, their mouths met, and latched onto each other for dear life, sucking and biting and desperately trying to attach physicality and flavor to the myriad of thoughts running through their minds.  

To her, he tasted strongly of approaching loneliness, all that she wanted but could never truly have.  He tasted like a bittersweet memory, like a picture of a lost loved one, or of that one you were still desperately waiting for.  He tasted of late-night tears, unrealized dreams, that one last look you give something before turning away for good.  He tasted like a tiny sliver of hope.   

To him, her wonderfully sweet, pure taste was tinged with guilt, but the guilt almost seemed to go unnoticed among the lust and the hunger and what he supposed could be construed of as love.  And yet, the hint of something pungent was still there.  And despite what he wanted to tell himself, despite how his mind wanted to block out the unpleasantness of reality, despite wanting to forget his desperate yet horribly selfish wish to start all over again, only with Samantha, her taste would always be peppered with regret.  

And yet, somehow, the mental anguish was squelched by the physical act of their lovemaking.  It was as if at this one, perfect moment, their flavors of guilt and lost hope and regret and broken promises were washed away by a wave of something deeper, something that only existed here in this one, perfect moment, something less easily-defined than the past simply coming back to haunt the present.  What that was, neither of them knew, and it didn't matter.  

Their lips parted, and he buried his head into the crook of her neck, increasing the pace of his hips, grunting and moaning incoherently against her ear.  Their chests slid together, slick with perspiration, and he gripped her hips tighter as her hands found their way into his hair.  

When her breath reduced itself to short hisses and intakes and gasps, he pulled his head up to stare into her eyes, which were growing wider with each clash of their hips.  He mouthed her name, not really knowing why, not even knowing if the gesture would register in her mind, as she seemed to be staring right through him, her irises glassy and distant.  

And then when he felt her tighten around him, when she gripped his hair in her fingers, he locked his eyes onto hers, overcome by the sensation of knowing she had reached that edge, and that she was pulling him along with her.  He was more than willing to follow, more than ready to give himself to this beautiful, living, breathing human being who had kept him alive today, who put up with all his faults, who accepted all his insecurities, who loved all the things he couldn't even stand about himself.  With a final thrust of his hips, he leaned forward to taste her once more, breathing her name into her mouth as his lips met hers.  

Their lips parted and they both gasped for air, hands gripping, muscles quivering, brains struggling for lucid thought, bodies recovering from a far more pleasant form of stress than what had initially brought them to this moment.  

Her legs dropped slowly from his waist, and he fell against her, pinning them both to the wall.  His knees were on the brink of collapse, and his whole body seemed to be shaking.  

She must have felt him trembling, and somehow her hands had found his back, tenderly running from his neck down to his waist.  His head fell to her shoulder, eyes tightly shut, his brain attempting to sort out the need for slumber from the electrical buzz and rush of blood pulsating through his veins.  

Somehow, they were moving, slowly moving backward.  He felt a softness on the back of his calves, blocking his path, and he let her push him down onto his back, groaning when she settled down on top of him, his body's nerves still on overdrive.  

He opened his eyes long enough to see her pull at the blanket from the back of her sofa and drape it over them.  He felt her hair on his shoulder, her hands on his chest, and her legs against his as they settled into a comfortable position, both craving a dark, peaceful respite from the day, but not wanting to go there alone.       

As he lay there, listening to her breathe, he considered saying something, but the only words that could possibly accompany what had just occurred were stuck in the bottom of his throat, close to his heart, and he knew he didn't have the strength or the courage to let them go, at least, not yet.  

He settled for running his fingers through the damp strands of her hair, until his hands finally rested on her back.  He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close, and let the sleep overtake him.      

(fin.)


End file.
